


The Observer Effect

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Firefly
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-28
Updated: 2006-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You look but you never touch. No way for a man to live."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Observer Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sullen Siren for listening and Laura for betaing. Additional notes at the end.

In science, the observer effect refers to changes that the act of observing has on the phenomenon being observed.

*

i. _Offered the feast  
Fool will you choose hunger_

"Yours but not yours," River says and Mal glances over at her, secretly grateful to be distracted from the sight of Inara's shuttle taking off. "You look but you never touch." She shakes her head. "No way for a man to live." He frowns at her, but she laughs, unafraid. "Hold tight but it slips through your fingers like time, like sand, until there's nothing left to hold at all."

"I'd take it as a kindness if you stopped--" he waves a hand, "that. Don't need you telling me--"

"What you already know."

She walks away, and he watches, struck.

*

ii. _How many times must  
I return here_

River's got an uncanny grace about her, reminds Mal of the diamondbacks he used to find in the canyons on Shadow, unnoticed in stillness, but sleek and deadly in motion.

He watches her with the same wary respect--same admiration, too, if he’s honest.

Thankfully, she don't spook as easy anymore, her hands steady on the stick, on the trigger, as she puts herself back together same as they patched up Serenity--never going to be what she was before; instead, she'll be a new thing, shed of her old skin, and maybe stronger for the breaking.

But there's an awkwardness to her still, sometimes, with her flimsy dresses and dark tangle of hair that ought to be tied back when they're working, a girl's uneasiness coiling round the woman she ain't yet ready to become.

She rolls her eyes, and he grins, caught.

"You know I'm right."

"Performance isn't hindered, and being underestimated gives us an advantage."

"Sure, but I bet you'd look real pretty if you did up your hair," he says without thinking. She lights up like fireworks, and now it's his turn to feel awkward, mouth running ahead of his brain like a _yúbèn de_ schoolboy.

*

iii. _Great Eye  
At your keyhole_

The door's open just a touch, enough so he don't feel the need to knock. Girl's a reader, must know he's coming. After her shenanigans this morning, directly disobeying his orders (and rescuing him and Jayne in the process, but that ain't the point), he's ready to give her a piece of his mind. He shoves the door open and is startled by the sight of her naked back, pale and sleek, water running down in rivulets as she bathes.

" _Tāmāde_!"

She whirls to face him, eyes wide, hair spilling over one shoulder, and he can't help but look. First time he saw her naked, she wasn't even a girl, really, not a real girl, just another problem to be dealt with. Now, he finds himself staring at small high breasts with pretty pink nipples peaked from the cool air, soft curves of belly and hips, shapely thighs he's caught glimpses of before, and the dark tangle of hair between them, mysterious and dangerous and not something he should ever be laying eyes on.

"The difference between seeing and understanding," she says calmly, though her skin is flushing rosy with embarrassment. She shrugs, body moving in all manner of interesting ways in response, and he can't look away. "Your eyes have been opened, and surely you shall not die." She smiles. "There's no sin in it. No sin and no shame."

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, but he can still see her, some kind of siren tempting him. "You come up to the bridge when you're done," he says, forcing the words out. "You ain't getting out of a scolding that easy."

As he's walking away, she calls out, "I'm not the one with a willful snake."

And though he should be ashamed, he can't help but laugh.

*

iv. _Fact: particles observed will  
Jump flight paths_

Mal's pretty good at blocking out things he don't care to think on, but it's harder when River's riding shotgun, legs drawn up so her skirt pools around her thighs like the ocean. Makes it hard to forget what he's seen; makes him want to see it again. His growing need to touch her is an undertow that's like to drag him out to sea and drown him.

He steals glances at her, likes to see the light reflecting in her eyes, playing across her skin--a kaleidoscope of starlight and sunlight and light from the monitors--then looks away before he gets caught. Usually.

First time she notices, he can see her expression reflected in the windscreen--it changes from hurt to thoughtful, brow furrowed, nose scrunched up; he looks back, ready to apologize, but before he can catch her eye, she looks away, forehead smooth, mouth curved in a small smile.

It's a game, reminds him of schooldays long past--pulling a girl's pigtails, carrying her books, and, as he got older, pressing her up against the door of the janitor's closet, one hand slipping up underneath her sweater, rush of hormones and scent of bubblegum drowning out the odor of chemical solvents. Makes him sad River don't have those kinds of memories. Makes him worry a little he's thinking he could be the one to give them to her.

He reins in his baser thoughts, keeps it light, teasing, instinctive, so she can't pick his brain, see what he's planning. She can't see it, and neither can he. Easy to pretend it's child's play, don't mean nothing to either of them, 'cept a way to pass time out in the black, make a sad girl (and a sad man) smile. Watching ain't doing. He has nothing to feel guilty about. Don't stop him feeling it, though.

Day comes she slips into the chair, he turns to look, and her hair is coiled in sleek curves at the back of her head, light catching the clips holding it there, shiny as a crown.

She turns to look at him, and he doesn't turn away, caught in the intricate weave of her hair, the sparkle in her eyes brighter than diamonds, the elegant white length of her neck, begging for the touch of fingers and lips.

"Made you look," she says, laughing.

Trouble is, now he can't look away.

*

v. _Pontoons between  
You and a silver shore_

Kaylee swears she'll fix the dishwasher in the morning, but Mal can't stand the sight or smell of dirty dishes littering his kitchen. Besides, everyone clears out right quick when there's washing up to be done, and he likes the time alone, brain wandering while his hands are busy.

He should probably be surprised when River comes to help him, dishtowel in hand, should probably be annoyed, too, but he's neither.

They work in silence for a while; they got a nice rhythm, the way they do up on the bridge. He could get used to having her at his side--she's good at anticipating him, and he understands her better every day.

He's the most relaxed he's been in a long time, mind eased and emptied by scutwork, focused only on the warm water, the slick feel of crockery under his hands, the soft sounds of their breathing in harmony with the low drone of Serenity's engine.

He turns to hand River a dish and her fingers slide along his, cool and smooth and damp, delicate as lotus blossoms. The touch jolts like lightning, makes his heart jump. He almost drops the dish, but instinct makes him hold on.

He steals a glance at her--she looks just as startled, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Her lips curve in that small smile, the one she wears when they play their game. That makes his heart jump, too.

Next time he hands her a dish, she touches him deliberately, runs her thumb along the back of his hand. He draws a shaky breath, inhaling the scent of her hair, and swallows hard. Knows the right thing to do and forces himself to do it.

"River, look--"

"Tired of looking. Time to touch."

"This ain't a game."

"Good, because I'm not playing." She takes his hand; it looks large and dark and clumsy wrapped inside her small one. "Look at me, Mal." She huffs in exasperation. "All that time spent looking, and now when I ask, you won't? _Xiāngfăn húndàn_." He laughs, small nervous thing that dies in his throat, and finally looks up. "Lotus grows in dirt, same as everything else. No sacred flowers, no talking snakes. Symbols only have the power we give them. Meaning isn't fixed."

She holds his gaze for a long moment, searching, and he don't think she's going to find what she's looking for, though he wishes she could. She sighs and turns away, letting go of his hand, which feels cold, missing the warmth of hers wrapped round it. Same instinct that made him grab the plate before makes him reach for her now, tangle his fingers with hers--the only surprising thing is how surprised he isn't, after all.

"Seems to me," he says in a low, hoarse voice, "this may be the way a man should live."

The smile she gives him now could power the engine for months, full of heat and promise like the touch of sun against his skin.

end

***

**Author's Note:**

> Title and section headings from _Memo from My Future Self_ by Ellen Wehle.


End file.
